


Graffiti

by DeathBelle



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Mentions of smoking and alcohol use, Minor Vandalism, Sneaking Out, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24538504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathBelle/pseuds/DeathBelle
Summary: Osamu wasn’t an idiot, despite what Atsumu said about him. He kept his head down, minded his own business, and stayed out of trouble.Except every now and then when he crawled out of their bedroom window to spend a night sneaking around town, because some things were worth the risk - and so was one person in particular.~~~~~“You don’t have to stay,” said Suna. He said it quietly, the way he talked to Osamu when they exchanged private words in the locker room or between classes or when they walked home from school. “It’s okay.”Osamu’s shoes scuffed against the concrete as he sank down to sit cross-legged beside the flashlight. He pushed his hood off, to get some air on the back of his neck, and said, “I’m stayin’.”
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 26
Kudos: 437
Collections: OsaSuna Week 2020, SunaOsa





	Graffiti

**Author's Note:**

> OsaSuna Week Day Four: Mischief/Trouble

  
  
  


It was sometime around midnight when there was a loud rap at Osamu’s bedroom window. It sounded like the red bird that sometimes flew up to tap at its own reflection at sunrise. Atsumu always had a tantrum about it, but it never bothered Osamu. He could sleep through nearly anything.

But he’d been lying awake, waiting for that sound.

He sat up and pushed off his bedsheets. He was quiet as he rolled to his feet and picked up his shoes, where he’d tucked them underneath his bed a few hours before.

“’Samu? What was that?”

Osamu went still, slowly looking over his shoulder to find Atsumu propped up on an elbow, rubbing at his eyes. Osamu said, “Nothin’. Go back to sleep.”

“Sounded like that damn bird. If it starts comin’ out at night I swear I’ll…” He dropped his hand and squinted across the dark room. His sleepy eyes went sharp. “Are you sneakin’ out again?”

“No.”

Atsumu sat all the way up. “What the hell, ‘Samu? You’re gonna get caught and dad’ll bury you in the backyard.”

“I’ll only get caught if you tell on me,” said Osamu. He went to the window, pried it open, and popped his head out. There was a shadow darker than the rest near the bushes. Osamu waved and ducked back inside. “You gonna tell on me?”

“I should,” hissed Atsumu. “I should go do it right now. You’d deserve it.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous?” Atsumu’s scowl grew murderous. “Jealous of  _ what?”_

“You know what.” Osamu yanked on his jacket and zipped it up. It was black, just like the sweatpants he was already wearing. He pulled on his shoes and eased one leg out the window.

“’Samu-”

“I’ll be back in a couple hours,” said Osamu. He hunched down to fit his head and shoulders through the window. “Go to sleep.”

“I hope you get caught,” said Atsumu, although he kept his voice down, had been keeping it down for the entire conversation. “Both of ya.”

Osamu flipped him off as he slid the rest of the way outside and braced a knee awkwardly on the narrow underhang that lined the first story of the house. He reached up to close the window and left a gap just wide enough for his fingers, so it would be easier to get back in later. He caught a grip on the underhang and let his legs slide off, dangling by his hands for a gut-swooping second before letting himself drop. He fell into a crouch, one hand slapping the ground for stability. The impact was a small buzz, much like the buzz of adrenaline as he melted into the shadows of the bushes where Suna was waiting.

“Hey,” said Suna. There were a few discarded pebbles beside his sneaker. 

“Hey.”

Suna tucked his hands in the pockets of his zip-up jacket. He was dressed all in black, the same as Osamu. A backpack was slung over his shoulders, also black. “You ready?”

Osamu nodded and the two of them slunk out of the Miyas’ yard, into the shaded alley behind the row of houses. Osamu had spent years of his life playing back there with Atsumu, but it was different in the dark; eerie almost. Suna didn’t seem bothered. He lived in a different neighborhood, with bigger houses and bigger yards. Maybe he’d played outside too when he was younger, with some neighbor kids, since he didn’t have any siblings.

They walked toward town, keeping to the shadows, Suna setting the pace and Osamu keeping stride beside him. It wasn’t the first time they’d done this, but Osamu couldn’t help looking over his shoulder every few minutes, wondering if someone had seen them. His parents would be furious if they knew he was sneaking out; furious, and disappointed. He was supposed to be the good twin, and that was usually easy to do, with Atsumu as his competition. 

He had a feeling that would change if they found out about Suna, about why Osamu was willing to take this risk to spend extra time with him.

He and Suna went to different places during these nights out. Usually it was stretches of back alley with overflowing dumpsters and piles of trash. A couple of times it had been abandoned buildings with boarded up windows and tattered eviction notices taped to the doors. Osamu didn’t know where they would end up tonight, and was startled to a stop when Suna headed for a multi-story parking garage across from an upscale bank. 

He’d thought they would pass through this part of town to get to a more neglected street, one where their presence – and what they left behind – would go mostly unnoticed. 

Suna was a few paces ahead. He turned when he realized Osamu was no longer with him. “Osamu?”

“What’re we doin’ here?” said Osamu, his voice hushed. He glanced from side to side, looking for potential witnesses, but no one was around. 

“It’s fine,” said Suna. “It’s empty in there at night. No one will notice us.”

Osamu hesitated. He imagined sitting on this curb, backlit by blue lights, hands cuffed behind his back as he waited for either a one-way trip to the local jail or for his parents to come pick him up. He wasn’t sure which nightmare was worse.

“But if they do we won’t be sneakin’ out anymore because we’ll be on lockdown ‘til we’re thirty,” hissed Osamu. 

Suna rolled his eyes. “You sound like Atsumu when you’re dramatic like that.”

Osamu squinted at him. “How dare you say that to me.”

Suna snorted and tugged his hood closer around his face to hide a grin. He extended a hand, fingers pale where they poked out of his dark sleeve. “Trust me.”

Osamu sighed and reached for Suna’s hand. The two of them dipped into the shadows of the yawning entrance, ducked beneath the yellow-striped barrier, and Suna tugged Osamu toward the stairwell. His hand was warm. Osamu’s was a little clammy, but Suna didn’t seem to mind. He held on as they climbed, one floor after another, until they reached the top.

The entire level was encased in solid concrete. It was pitch black when they stepped away from the stairwell lights, but Suna was prepared. He let go of Osamu’s hand to shuffle around, and a few seconds later Osamu winced at a burst of light.

“Sorry,” said Suna, moving the beam out of Osamu’s face. He swept it in front of them, at the vacant cavern of the parking garage. The floor to the right of them cut down at a slope toward the lower level. Suna started forward, keeping to level ground. Osamu watched the white stripes of the parking spaces as they went, their footsteps echoing against the walls and looping back to them.

Suna stopped about forty spots in, but in the press of darkness Osamu couldn’t tell how much distance was between them and the stairwell or the far wall. It was just the two of them, floating along in the bright speck of a flashlight, engulfed by darkness.

“Right here,” said Suna. He stepped back, shoulder brushing against Osamu’s, and flicked the flashlight toward the parking garage wall. It was gray, bare concrete. 

Osamu stared at it, then looked back to Suna, the angles of his face cutting sharply in the strange light. “You’ve gotta be kiddin’.”

“I’m not.” Suna put the flashlight down, the beam still shining on the wall, and shrugged off his backpack. 

“You know we could get in a lotta trouble for this,” said Osamu. They were alone, eerily alone, but he still felt the need to keep his voice low. “This ain’t just a shady back alley somewhere. People will be here in a few hours. Somebody owns this.”

“Yeah,” agreed Suna. He went down to one knee and rifled around in his bag. “It’s owned by the bank across the street.”

“That’s not-”

“The bank across the street,” repeated Suna, “where my dad’s the manager.”

Osamu closed his mouth. He should have said something to that, one of a hundred things, but he stayed quiet.

There was a familiar  _ clack-clack-clack _ as Suna shook up a large spray can. “We won’t get caught, but even if we do, we won’t get in trouble. My dad will yell at me for a while, but he’ll forget about it in two weeks. He has other stuff to worry about.”

Osamu exhaled. “Why even chance it?”

Suna rose, still idly shaking the can. He propped the flashlight up on the edge of the bag for a better angle and stepped back to eye the wall. “I have a vision,” he said with a wry twist of his mouth. “I need space.”

There was plenty of that here. The garage stretched on forever. Osamu looked back the way they came and the stairwell light was only a fuzzy dot in the distance. 

The clacking stopped. Osamu realized Suna was looking at him.

“You don’t have to stay,” said Suna. He said it quietly, the way he talked to Osamu when they exchanged private words in the locker room or between classes or when they walked home from school. “It’s okay.”

Osamu’s shoes scuffed against the concrete as he sank down to sit cross-legged beside the flashlight. He pushed his hood off, to get some air on the sweaty back of his neck, and said, “I’m stayin’.”

Suna smiled. 

Something always happened when Suna smiled. It did something to his face, made the angles softer and his eyes brighter. It also flipped Osamu’s stomach inside-out with a breathless flutter, made his chest and his ears and his cheeks feel warm. 

Suna turned toward the wall and Osamu touched his own face. He hoped it was dark enough that Suna couldn’t see how red it was.

There was more  _ clack-clack-clack _-ing as Suna studied the wall, head tilted slightly. He popped the cap off of the can, tossed it back toward his bag, and paused for a few more seconds, his finger poised on the plastic trigger. He pulled at the bandana tied loosely around his neck and adjusted it across the bridge of his nose, covering the bottom half of his face. When he raised his arm it was with purpose, and the first long, curving line was like a scar against the concrete. The paint was black like the shadows, black like a moonless night. It was shortly joined by another line, and then another. Osamu didn’t know what Suna was painting, and he didn’t ask. That was part of the fun, trying to guess as more lines were cut into existence, sprawling or overlapping. 

And it was fun. It was always fun, despite the bite of nerves in Osamu’s head that insisted they would get caught. Osamu thought maybe that was what made it so fun. 

It was also watching Suna, because although Osamu enjoyed doing that at any time, there was something special about it here. It was private, a secret just between the two of them, something that couldn’t belong to anyone else. Suna painted with the same intensity that he played volleyball; sharp and focused and with obvious skill.

The smell of spray paint was stronger than usual, without open air to suck the stench away. If the garage hadn’t been so massive, Osamu would have probably gotten high off of the fumes. He thought it was still a possibility, because Suna had almost gone through a full can and showed no signs of slowing down. The paint on the wall was starting to take shape. Osamu had a vague idea of what it might be but it was too soon to know for sure. 

Suna turned and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He dropped the spray paint can and reached into his bag for another one. The lid of this one was red. 

“It looks good,” said Osamu, as Suna started  _ clack-clack-clack- _ ing the new can.

Suna’s mouth was covered, but Osamu knew he was smiling anyway. “I’m just getting started.”

They were there for a long time. Hours, maybe. Osamu didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. It felt like time didn’t exist at all, not here, not like this. He sat on the concrete and watched Suna paint and thought of absolutely nothing else.

Several times, he thought Suna was finished. Suna stopped and stepped back and studied what he’d done, and Osamu couldn’t imagine any way he could improve it. But he kept grabbing a different can and adding a little more and making the wall even more beautiful.

Eventually Suna tossed a can aside with a sense of finality. He backed up even further, out of the flashlight glow, until he blended with the shadows. He was quiet for so long that Osamu could have believed he was alone.

“What do you think?” asked Suna after a while, from somewhere close.

Osamu didn’t hesitate. “It’s perfect.”

“Not perfect,” said Suna. He crept out of the darkness to plop down beside Osamu, their knees knocking together. He tilted his head at the wall and said, “Good, I think. Maybe my best. But not perfect.”

Osamu looked away from the wall to study Suna’s face instead. His forehead was sweaty and he’d yanked the bandana back down around his neck. It had left a line across the bridge of his nose, cutting across both of his cheeks. 

Suna was just as perfect, but Osamu thought Suna would argue with that, too.

Suna yanked open his bag, the beam of the flashlight wavering as he displaced it. He plucked out a pair of sodas and passed one to Osamu. They’d probably been cold when he’d packed them, but they were slippery and lukewarm now. Osamu didn’t care. He cracked his open and took a long, slow sip. 

Sometimes they shared a beer, when Osamu thought he could sneak one out of his father’s stash without getting caught. Once Suna had smuggled a pair of cigarettes and they’d choked on smoke and laughter. But most of the time it was this, sitting side by side and drinking sodas, watching Suna’s work dry.

It was always impressive, but Suna was right. This was his best.

A pair of foxes leapt on the parking garage wall, one of them the orange-red of sunset, the other the gray-black of a cloudy night. They were detailed, vivid, as if they might peel themselves off of the wall and dash away. The background was a spatter of colors that looked the way static sounded. 

“This one’s my favorite,” said Osamu, the taste of soda almost too sweet on his tongue. “It’s really good, Rin.”

Suna smiled, subtle, but enough to brighten his face. “Thanks.” He put his empty soda can to the side and stood up again. “I just need to sign it.” He grabbed the red paint that had rolled away and stepped up to the wall again. He sprayed it on his fingers and crouched to dab a shape at the bottom corner, beside a fluffy black tail. When he backed away, the shape left behind was a smiling red fox, almost childish compared to the art sprawled above it. 

Suna discarded the can and returned to drop down beside Osamu again. “Someday I’ll put my name on it instead.”

“And someday you’ll get arrested for vandalism,” said Osamu, only half-joking.

Suna cut a glance at him and reached out to smear his fingers across Osamu’s cheek. Osamu smacked him away, but not before Suna left a wet streak that must have been as scarlet as his fingers. Osamu tried to look mad, but Suna laughed, and Osamu felt warm again.

Suna reached for him, but this time with his clean hand, and Osamu didn’t pull away. Suna’s fingers danced at his jaw, so lightly that they almost tickled. “Red’s a good color on you, Osamu.”

Osamu put his half-empty soda to the side, not looking away from Suna. He shifted toward him, one hand braced against the rough concrete, the other rising to touch the back of Suna’s hand. Suna gave him that smile again; curved mouth and bright eyes and unforgiving pressure in Osamu’s chest.

Suna leaned in, hesitated. 

They’d done this a few times too, mixed in with the paint and the soda and the occasional beer. The first time it had happened, Osamu had forgotten how to breathe. He barely remembered now as Suna closed the last bit of distance and found his mouth, their lips moving together, slow and careful and uncertain. Osamu reached up to touch Suna’s face and curl a hand at his jaw, a thumb resting against Suna’s cheekbone. Suna’s hair brushed at Osamu’s knuckles.

When they stopped kissing, they didn’t pull back. They stayed there in each other’s space, eyes half-open, mouths occasionally touching when one of them moved.

“Thanks for coming with me,” said Suna, the words breathed onto Osamu’s lips. “Even though you didn’t want to.”

“I wanted to.” Osamu moved his thumb, rubbed it back and forth over Suna’s cheekbone, slowly, just to feel the texture of his skin. “I always want to.”

Suna smiled, just barely, and pressed his mouth against Osamu’s again. He pulled away and leaned back on his hands to take another look at the wall. Osamu leaned back too, but he didn’t look away from Suna. He was a work of art, too.

“We should go,” said Suna, nudging a spray can with his foot. “It took longer than I thought it would.”

Osamu still didn’t know what time it was. He didn’t care. “I’ll help you clean up.”

They collected all the empty cans and shoved them back into Suna’s bag. He hefted it over his shoulders, snatched the flashlight from the floor, and took one last look at the foxes dancing on the parking garage wall.

Osamu thought it wouldn’t be there for long. Someone would cover it up soon, probably by tomorrow. It was a shame. It deserved to last for weeks, months, years. He wished Suna would at least take a picture of it, but he always refused. It was supposed to be temporary, he always said. That was why he wanted to paint like this instead of on a canvas he could keep. Real beauty didn’t last. It always faded, always disappeared. 

Osamu didn’t think he believed that. Suna was beautiful, and that would never disappear.

Suna led the way to the stairwell, the beam of the flashlight bobbing ahead of them, lighting the path. When they emerged onto the sidewalk it was still dark, but Osamu didn’t think it would be for long. This darkness had a different feeling than before, less like a cloak of velvet and more like fading smoke.

They started back through town, and when they dipped into the shadows of a nearby shop, Osamu reached out for Suna’s hand. Their fingers laced together, and they stayed like that all the way home. Osamu wondered if someday they could hold hands like this when it wasn’t dark, when they weren’t sneaking around, when he wasn’t afraid of someone seeing.

They passed Osamu’s neighborhood first, and when he turned to go toward his house, Suna tugged at his hand and pulled him back. Fingers curled at the edge of Osamu’s hood and pulled him in. This kiss was sharper than the one back at the parking garage. There was no hesitance, no uncertainty. Suna kissed him like he meant it, and Osamu kissed him back the same way. 

When they broke apart, Osamu’s lips were buzzing and his face was hot and he wanted to bring Suna back to his room and kiss him there, too.

“I’ll see you in a couple of hours, for practice,” said Suna. He licked his lips, touched a fingertip to Osamu’s cheek before taking a step back. “You should wash your face. Atsumu will think you were out killing someone.”

Osamu had forgotten about the red paint. He laughed, a little breathlessly. “Yeah. I’ll get it off.”

“Osamu?”

“Yeah?”

Suna started to say something, hesitated. That wasn’t like him. Suna was hardly ever uncertain. He frowned, and glanced away as he said, “If you want to go again next week…”

It wasn’t a question, not exactly, but Osamu said, “Yeah. Anytime you want.”

Suna kissed him again, but this time it was a quick brush of lips against Osamu’s cheek. “’Bye, Osamu.”

“’Bye, Rin.”

They broke off in different directions. Osamu wandered into the shade of the bushes and watched Suna until he was out of sight. He touched his face – the side where Suna had kissed him, not the side with the paint – and awkwardly clambered up the side of the house until he was perched on the underhang. He eased the window up and slipped inside, closed it silently behind him, and squinted through the dark. Atsumu was in bed, mouth open and eyes closed, oblivious. 

Osamu toed off his shoes and stowed them back underneath his bed, draped his jacket across the back of a chair, and crawled into his sheets. He scratched at the paint on his face but didn’t get up to wash it off. He wanted to see it when he woke up, to be reminded of the night he’d spent with Suna. He would just dodge Atsumu until he had his shower. It wouldn’t be hard; Osamu had spent years of his life avoiding his brother. 

He didn’t check the time, but he knew it was probably creeping close to five. He would have to get up painfully soon, and the entire day would be a struggle. 

He closed his eyes, determined to get at least a few minutes of sleep before the alarm clock and Atsumu’s whining woke him up again.

As he dozed he thought of Suna and painted foxes and soda-sweet kisses, and wished that every night could be like tonight.


End file.
